


Slumber and Spaghetti

by EllenofX



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Assisted Suicide, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Character Death, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Gen, Hurt, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Other, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-11 01:10:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7018891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenofX/pseuds/EllenofX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fair warning, this <i>really</i> doesn’t have a happy ending.<br/>A short two-chapter fic inspired by saidno1ever’s Human-AU series, “You're Sick, I Hate You and Love You For It”. You <span class="u">don’t</span> have to be familiar with the series to read this <span class="small">(But you should go read it anyway because it's really good)</span>.<br/><b>---* Excerpts From This Fic Below *---</b><br/>You swear that when you broke the bedframe it was an accident.<br/>Not even Papyrus believed you.<br/>The wounds in his leg are deep, but Gramps didn’t take him to the ER.<br/>You find him standing shirtless in the closet.<br/>You’re still sitting there after Sans falls suspiciously silent.<br/>You wait until you are completely certain he’s fallen asleep again.<br/>You leave the cold plate of spaghetti next to the bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nap Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6626407) by [saidno1ever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saidno1ever/pseuds/saidno1ever). 



> Okay, kiddies~ Buckle up, because this is going to be a rough ride. Three things before we get started:  
> 1) Yes, your POV *does* change in the second chapter. Isn't that fun?  
> 2) If you can, please leave comment. I _really_ like comments.  
>  3) Most of all, **thank you for reading!** I sincerely hope you enjoy - Though this might be the most grim-dark thing I've ever written. :-)  
>  **Have fun out there, now, Kiddos! :-)**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus is in pain after an accident leaves him crippled. Sans is there to help.

You help Papyrus around the house a lot after the lake incident because he limps. 

Do you feel guilty about what happened, or do you just not have anything better to do?  
You aren’t quite certain.  
Mostly you just don’t want to be separated from him.

The wounds on his leg are deep, but Gramps didn’t take him to the ER.

The two men in the boat kept apologizing over and over again, but after the first time none of you had time to really acknowledge them, except for Papyrus who told them that it was fine, that it was an accident between his own traumatized sobs.  
The barbed wire, caught on the boats motor, had ripped into his flesh like fishhooks through a trout’s gaping maw.  
It really was a freak accident - no one could’ve expected it.

You didn’t forgive the men, though, because you aren’t as kind as Papyrus.

You left quickly after that.  
Paps shivered against you on the car ride home, a short coil of the wire still wrapped around his leg as the blood pooled on the mock-leather seats.  
Then Gramps patched Pap up in his study.

You didn’t even know he was that kind of doctor.  
Maybe he isn’t.  
The wounds have gone hot and red, and if you run your hand over them Papyrus flinches in pain and your hand comes away smelling of disease.

When Ms. Toriel came over, she fussed over him, even letting him eat spaghetti for the day.  
Ms. Toriel is worried about tetanus.  
You’re both careful not to let her see the pus.

It’s the weekend when things start to go really bad, so Ms. Toriel isn’t around to help. 

You’re grateful.  
Papyrus isn’t. He keeps begging for you to get someone.  
There isn’t anyone to get except for Gramps, and you don’t think he’d come, anyway.

He’s feverish and thirsty.  
You have to stand on the stool to get the drink mix down, only to find that it’s virtually empty.  
The lemonade you give him is thin and watery, the liquid more off-white and cloudier than its familiar, friendly yellow. 

Papyrus guzzles it down anyway and asks for more.  
You bring him plain water this time.  
He drinks that, too.

He starts shivering, and no number of blankets seem to be able to stop it, so you draw him a bath.

It’s too hot, he says, and starts crying again as you ease him into it.  
You aren’t strong enough to support his full weight to pull him out, though, and his good leg keeps sliding on the smooth surface of the tub, unable to find purchase.  
As soon as he’s in, you turn the cold water on full blast and climb in with him.

You don’t even bother to take your clothes off.  
It really is too hot, you find, but you don’t get out or even hesitate to submerge yourself in it.  
It burns your very bones as it seeps through you, your fabric and your flesh.

The tap driven between your shoulder blades is uncomfortable, spewing ice cold water against your back and causing your shirt to cling to you, tight, like a giant leech.  
You don’t move away from it, you just sit there, on your side of the tub staring at your brother.  
He stares back it you miserably, and you give him a little wave, trying to cheer him.

Of course he waves back, but doesn’t look any happier.

Eventually the tub is divided from the stagnation of the water.  
His side is still broiling hot, and yours is so cold that you can’t stop shivering.  
Your toes are toasty, though, resting beside Papyrus’ thigh, and you imagine that his are pleasantly cool. 

You turn the water off just after it runs over, and a little splashes to the floor with the motion.

You have him lean forward and start to clean him with a bleach-stained, ragged, but soft washcloth.  
His back, his neck, and finally his face.  
He closes his eyes against your touch, but doesn’t protest the invasion until you move to wash the weeping wounds. 

The water around them has gone dark, the hardened blood and other excretions flaking off and falling to the white bottom of the tub.

Paps tells you he can clean them himself, but when you give him the rag he tries to pull you forward so he can wash your back.  
You tell him you don’t need it, and he starts to lecture you on proper hygiene.  
You scrub your armpits through your sodden T-shirt to satisfy him, and it seems to work. 

With all the motion, the two halves of the tub have mixed, leaving the entire thing tepid, and you carefully ignore how much of the water has sloshed out onto the tiled floor.

When you’re both clean, or at least cleaner, you pull the plug and let the water drain around you.  
For a moment you have the impression that maybe, just maybe, you’ll get sucked down with the rest of the filth this time.  
It doesn’t happen, and you and Papyrus struggle together to get him out of the tub and dry.

He’s tired afterward, so you both retreat to the mattress on the floor you call a bed and treat like a sanctuary.  
You swear that when you broke the bedframe it was an accident.  
Not even Papyrus believes you. 

Still, neither of you complain.  
It’s perfectly comfortable here, with each other.  
Except for tonight.

You don’t sleep, don’t _try_ to sleep, you just hold Papyrus.  
Comfort Papyrus.  
Try to help Papyrus… 

He floats in and out of consciousness, hazy, sometimes confused or terrified.  
He’s not just having nightmares, but something worse, something that doesn’t seem to go away when he wakes up.  
Occasionally his limp body goes rigid, too rigid, like it’s fighting itself and loosing and you don’t know what to do. 

He stops crying, and starts to claw at you when he’s desperate, and even when he’s asleep he doesn’t get any rest.  
His eyes dart around wildly beneath his closed eyelids and his entire face contorts into strange expressions you don’t think you’ve seen him wear before.  
When it gets really bad, you wake him up, and he looks at you with vacant confusion, his painful grip on you easing for a while into the sedative embrace you’ve come to expect from him. 

He whispers again for you to get him help, but there’s no one in the world except for you and him. 

Anyone past your bedroom door is just a monster in disguise.  
You’re protecting him.  
You’ll always protect him. 

He fades in and out of awareness again, and you still don’t know what to do.  
At some point he asks you to make it stop.  
Then you know what to do.

You rub his back for a while, a long while, and recite from memory what little you remember from his favorite children’s book.  
He corrects you on the main character’s name (gently, the same way he does everything), telling you its Fluffy Bunny, not Hairy Bunny.  
You make the correction without any further comment, carefully repositioning both of you as you continue to sooth him.

Eventually his words, occasional tender comments on how you’re messing up the story, get lost, and his body relaxes beside you.  
He’s asleep.  
For a few moments, you continue talking and rubbing his back, uncertain if you’re making sure he’s completely unconscious or praying he wakes up again. 

Either way, you hesitate.

Then you fall silent.  
You rub between his scapulas one last time, then slowly place your arm over his shoulder.  
Your other arm is already beneath his neck.

His head was resting on it, for a while.

You move forward slowly, pressing yourself into him.  
He shifts closer to you, and you freeze, worried for a moment that he’s woken up, but his rhythmic breathing betrays the truth.  
He’s still asleep. 

As you tighten your grip, bringing your arms crossed against his chest, you close your eyes.  
Again you hesitate, simply hugging him for a while, again uncertain if you want him to wake up now, in time to stop you.  
You remind yourself that he asked you to do this.

He asked you to make it stop.

You move so suddenly that even you are surprised, clenching towards yourself with all the power you have in your small frame. Papyrus’ neck is in the way, just as it is meant to be, and he flinches instantly, panicking. He doesn’t have enough air to stop you or to make any noise at all, and the whole process is amazingly silent. You had waited very purposefully for him to be at the bottom of his breath, lungs empty, so that it would go faster. 

It still takes too long. Way too long. Far too long. 

The tears feel hot against your cheek even after they’re wiped away by Papyrus’ hair, which is rough and scratchy as he smashes his head into your face.

He bucks once, twice, many more times than you bother to count, and you role onto your back to keep him from escaping. He’s thrashing on top of you, hitting you, but you just keep hugging him out of love. His limbs get tangled in the blankets, which restrain him as gently as you would yourself with their soft, forgiving warmth, and you are grateful to them.

You and he are nearly the same size, but even in his debilitated state you think that he’s stronger than you. He was always very active, running around, even offering to help the gardener before Gramps forbid it. Maybe he’s not using his full strength. That’s what you tell yourself, because it makes sense, because he asked you to do this. He’s weakening by the time he brings his hands to your arm, prying at it with small, desperate fingers that remind you of the paws of trapped rats. 

His fingertips feel clammy and weak.  
They scramble against your skin.  
They almost tickle.

Eventually, they stop.

You keep hugging him for a long time after that.  
Until you feel his entire body unwind atop you, muscles going slack in surrender.  
Even long after that. 

You wait until you are completely certain that he’s fallen asleep again.

Then you release him, move your grip to around his midsection, and embrace him again.  
You lay like that for a long time, with him still on top of you, and then you roll over.  
Now he’s between you and the wall, the way he always slept. 

The way he should sleep now.

You bury your face into the back of your sleeping brother’s neck, nuzzling him affectionately and breathing in his scent.  
It isn’t quite the way it should be, because there’s something putrid beneath it, but you ignore that.  
You soak in the last of his body heat and try to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Greetings. I am Ch~~~  
>  *Coughs*  
> - _I mean, um..._ -
> 
>  **Hiya there, home-slice!**  
>  While I think this is a perfectly good stand alone, I really think that the second chapter makes the entire work a lot more interesting (that's why I wrote it, haha), so you should read it if you can.  
> It's already written, and I'll be posting it somewhere between June 3rd and June 5th.
> 
> *Spoiler Alert*  
> No, the second chapter is not the same thing from Papyrus' POV. That would just be _sadistic_ , now wouldn't it? :-)  
> Instead, the second chapter catalogs the the context for this event as well as what happens afterwards. Again, there is no happy ending.
> 
>  **Anyway, thanks for reading this far, and have a wonderful day!**  
>  If you can leave a comment or kudos, I'd be much appreciative.  
> TTFN, M8!


	2. Snack Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A psychologist is called to help. They prepare a meal for Sans.

You’re surprised when you get the call. The drive to the estate wasn’t long, but it wasn’t short either and always gave you plenty of time to ruminate on what had happened. You had known the children were troubled, but you never expected _this_ from either of them. It’d two years since you last saw them, and while at the time you had wished that Dr. Gaster could still afford your charges, you had understood his financial situation and hadn’t complained when he stopped the boys’ visits. 

Now you wish you’d offered to do more. Reduced rates at off times, you thought, or maybe just the occasional visit for free. Maybe it would’ve prevented this. 

Then again, maybe not.

On your first day treating the child, the groundskeeper stopped you halfway to the imposing timeworn building. His name was Asgore, he explained, and his ex-wife had been the first one to find the boys. He was the second, he said, rushing in after he heard her shrieking. He asked you to be kind to her and kind to Sans and kept apologizing repeatedly. You didn’t understand what he apologized for at first, until you entered what seemed like an old mansion on the outside, but inside was just another kingdom for depravity.

At first you felt sorry for the old man, the way his voice wavered with sorrow, but eventually a thought struck you, and you couldn’t keep the resentment out of your voice as you demanded to know how Dr. Gaster could afford a groundskeeper and a tutor/maid, but not a goddamn physchiatrist. 

Asgore seemed understanding, looking at you with his big, soft eyes and sad smile as he explained calmly that he and Ms. Toriel had been doing this work for a very, very long time. They were both ancient, he said, a gentle humor to his voice, antiques. Officially speaking, they’d both retired years ago, but neither of them had anything better to do. You understood, then, that these were people who had inhabited the grounds long before Dr. Gaster, and, you got the implication, would reside here after the dying man had faded. 

Working for Dr. Gaster kept them active, Asgore further justified, ignorant of your thoughts, and even if it was awkward to run into each other all the time, working here was better than wasting away in a retirement home. They didn’t have enough money for anything else, he said, and their own children had died under similar circumstances. He didn’t elaborate and you didn’t ask him to.

Their work was an act of charity, like yours would’ve been, if you had known better. Much like the household, you learned, Dr. Gaster had seemed refined on the outside, cleverly concealing the withering reality within. You wondered how long Asgore and Ms. Toriel’s free labor had kept the children alive, and forgave them for not interfering before this happened. Talking to each of them, you quickly became aware that they truly were the ancient sort, from another era where people left each other to their own business. It was hard to judge them when you knew from their eyes that they judged themselves, always distant, probably thinking back to the past sins that had driven them apart in the first place.

You took to talking with Asgore in the household, and Ms. Toriel always skirted around the two of you like a jealous cat. She obviously wanted to avoid her ex-husband, but didn’t want to be remiss to the outdated ideals she abided by. So, reluctantly offering glasses of water to you and the large, old man, whose face brightened as perceptibly as hers soured each moment she was forced to admit to his presence. She visibly cringed each time she learned what you were talking about, but added her own commentary, ever with the preamble of how she “shouldn’t say, but…”

Ms. Toriel proved to be a great wealth of information. Arguably, you could see her as being the children’s real primary caregiver for… Who knew how long? Vaguely, you remembered her face in your waiting room, clearer then you did Dr. Gaster’s.

You were grateful for the details, knowing these were facts you’d never get otherwise. The police weren’t really interested in talking with you. They probably just wanted to look like they were doing something when there was nothing they could do.

Papyrus’ body had been found in his own bed, his brother clinging to it desperately. Apparently, Sans wouldn’t let go of it until they actually forced him to, and he fought them all the way, biting and clawing and screaming and laughing. Later evidence suggested he’d stayed like that for nearly three days, which explained the stench of his surroundings and why the child had to be immediately taken to the ER after passing out shortly following his discovery. Severe dehydration. If no one had interfered, it’s probable he would’ve killed himself that way.

The coroner had struggled somewhat with cause of death. The small body was already bloated and rotting by the time it was brought to her, leaving many possible causes to consider. The first, most obvious suspect was an injury from a boating accident nearly a month previous, which had gotten badly infected. Horribly infected actually, to a degree where, had the child been alive, the limb likely would have been amputated to try to save him. It was clear from the state of the corpse that the child had been severely sick prior to death, and before a full autopsy that was the assumed cause. However, it was eventually determined that Papyrus had died of strangulation, and the primary suspect was his brother.

When brought in for questioning, Sans didn’t share anything of interest with the police. In fact, he allegedly just laughed at them. Later, based on your own experience, you found this likely to be the truth. He was sent home allegedly due to his age and “other factors”, and you guessed that “other factors” included why you were called. They suspected some type of mental disturbance.

The case was grim and brutal, and no one knew what to do with it. A dead child, a mad child, and a dying and crazy old man. Two weeks into your daily visits, you’d only seen Dr. Gaster once. 

The boy’s grandfather had bulbous eyes and thin skin, appearing far sicklier then you recalled. His nose was crooked, as though it had been broken many times in recent years, and his jaw line had the pitted, gnarled look you quickly associated with the bone disease you’d heard whispers about. He blinked at you with a blank, unkempt look before shuffling out of the kitchen like a cockroach. He didn’t say a word to you, just grabbed a jar of peanut butter from the cabinet and left. He didn’t even take a spoon, and you wondered how he was going to eat it. 

It was very clear why he was being charged for child neglect. You wanted to petition as to why Sans was ever allowed to come back here, but found your answer in the violence he inflicted whenever you tried to remove him from the room he and Papyrus had shared. The child was grim and brutal, and no one knew what to do with him. Not even you.

When you open the door, Sans went very… Still. You’re not sure if that’s the best word for it, but it’s the one you use later when trying to defend yourself. He has the same constant shit-eating grin you remember, only even more manic and twisted then your recollections allowed. He simply watches you as you step into his room, and you look back at him for a moment, considering his filthy skin and the dirty orange hoody that he swims in. Ms. Toriel told you it was his brother’s, and you’re astonished that it’s so big on him. You remember the boys both being small, but similar in size to each other, and wonder if he’s lost that much weight since his brother’s death or if Gaster never bothered to purchase the right size anyway.

Since he can't be trusted with anything he might hurt himself with, the room Sans is in is surprisingly clean, except for the corner he's decided to inhabit. Everything in the room is gathered there, scattered without any sense of organization or interest, many of the items haphazardly placed in and atop dirty dishes or strewn across the floor. During one visit, you realize Sans lives in the corner furthest from the mattress on the floor, as far away as he can get from where he was… Where Ms. Toriel found them.

When you try to interact with him, he ignores you. He rocks back and forth a lot, having just barely given up on bludgeoning himself to death against the wall. He’d only stopped after you told him that if he continued you’d have to take him to an asylum. The only reason you haven’t is because the threat of leaving his sanctuary seems to be the only thing that scares him enough that he’ll give you any indication he even hears you. 

The only indication you often get is laughter. Sans laughs, and sometimes, when he's feeling generous enough to grace you by speaking, he asks you when Papyrus is coming back.

One day he explains that he's not going to cooperate without Papyrus there with him. For a moment, you wonder if he really doesn't know. If he's so mentally broken that he thinks his brother's still alive. Then he starts laughing again, harder and louder than before. When he's almost out of breath, just before he takes another gasp of air to cackle more, you realize that it sounds more like sobbing then laughter... And _you_ know _he_ knows what's going on. 

Numbly, you wonder if that’s progress. You don’t think it is. You can’t do this anymore.

On your way out, Sans goes silent, then calls after you in his shattered-child’s voice, "Can I have more pasta?"

It’s the only thing he’ll eat.

You prepare it for him while Ms. Toriel watches you with disapproval and pity. When you open the pasta sauce, the surface of it is clotted with green and white colonies of mold, and the whole thing stinks of rot. You let out a little disgusted gasp, and Ms. Toriel silently offers you a fresh jar from the larder. You thank her, and she comments that she thinks that’s the jar she opened for Papyrus the day before she left for her long weekend. You pick up the plate, and she stops you, reaching into her pocket and adding a ketchup packet to the side of the plate and you thank her again, particularly considering that you’d forgotten. Then you start down the long hallway.

There’s a problem, though. You can’t open the door again, simply cannot make yourself do it. Instead, you lean, then slide down the wall just outside Sans’ room. You sit in the hallway and the pasta steams for a while as it cools. Sans must see your shadow beneath the doorway, because you hear him laughing again, then talking to someone you know he’ll never see again.

“…I wish I could find that stupid book you like… I think Ms. Toriel threw it out after you get spaghetti sauce on it that one time…”

You’re still sitting there after Sans falls suspiciously silent. The noodles beside you are stone cold, and neither Asgore nor Ms. Toriel have come to check on you. You know that they won’t, either, because they are from another era where people left each other to their own business. You want to leave the door unopened, but know that you can’t. After enough time has passed that you’re certain that he’s finished his business, you go into the silent room.

You find him standing shirtless in the closet. 

It must’ve taken him a few tries to manage it, but somehow he got the soft, spongey arms of the hoodie to wrap around his neck and support his weight from the hanger bar above him. You move his body first, picking the suspended boy up with unnecessary care and moving him to the empty mattress. 

He’s so light you can carry him with just one arm, and you try to recall just exactly how old he was. Then you set to the task of untying his make-shift noose. You realize he would’ve had to have actually leaned into it order to make it work at first. 

That he couldn’t have just let gravity have its way with him until after he was already unconscious…  
Until that moment, Sans was actively choosing to make this happen.  
Actively suppressing the undeniable urge to struggle.

The knots are surprisingly easy to untie. You move the sagging corpse on top of the now spread hoodie, and tie the arms together across the neck. It looks a bit like the child is in the embrace of an invisible man, you think, but then you force yourself to tighten the knot with a ferocity no one should ever embrace a child with. There’s something very disconcerting about taking the action, actually feeling the limits of the flesh below you until you simply cannot tighten any further, and when you pull away your breath is quaking because you are quaking and you feel as if _the world should be quaking_... But it’s not.  
You’ll call the cops, soon. You know what you'll tell them. You’ll tell them that you thought he was just sleeping. He suffers - suffered - from narcolepsy, you know you'll say, it was one of the things you were trying to help him and his brother with before, along with a myriad of other illnesses, both mental and physical. And even though that doesn’t make sense, you know that no one will ask questions. You know that even Asgore and Ms. Toriel will pretend to believe you.

You leave the cold plate of spaghetti next to the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you made it this far, huh?  
> Good for you, M8. Aren't you glad you read this?  
> *Que shit-eating grin*
> 
> Anyway, **thank you very much for reading this!** If you can leave a comment and/or kudos, it would really, really make my day. If not, though, that's perfectly fine. I still love ya just for reading this~
> 
> Now, a little ramble about this fic in general. This was inspired primarily by the comments thread of ["Cement"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6626407), the third installment of the ["You're Sick, I Hate You and Love You For It"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/444454) series written by saidno1ever. In fact, it's kinda meant to be an AU of that series and take place directly after ["Cement"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6626407) itself. There are several differences between my version of this universe and the original author's, but they were actually kind enough to read this themselves before I posted it and have given me their blessings! How freaking sweet is that?! :-D
> 
> Anyways, the ["You're Sick, I Hate You and Love You For It"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/444454) series is *AMAZING*, and if you even vaguely enjoyed this fic, _go read **all of it** right now_. Because it's seriously like eight times better then this shit, and _potentially_ less grim. It's ongoing right now, with six out of ??? installments posted. I happen to know that the author already has some of the next installments written, if I am understanding them correctly, and I'm super excited to see where they go with it!
> 
> My final note on this whole thing is how utterly fucked this whole thing ended up being. Like, jaysus, did I really write this? And who, exactly, do you blame for this ending? Literally the only innocent person here is Papyrus, and even he _should_ have demanded attention when he had the option. Poor kid was rotting alive... Egh... And yet even the most guilty parties aren't "bad", exactly. 
> 
> Sans and Gaster are both mentally ill, and in this version of events Gaster is dying as well, probably of a wide-spread cancer. They were never capable of caring for anyone, but somehow ended up in that position. I think that Toriel and Asgore did the most they thought they could to help the kids, but I have a some experience with old people who are... Almost abusively of the mind that "someone else's business is someone else's business and it's not our/my place to interfere" and that's kind of what the two were based of off. They're not mean, or evil, that's just the culture they were raised in. Also, Chara and Asriel probably died in a situation _very_ similar to Sans and Papyrus in this story, with one appearing to kill the other before taking their own life, and I think that the Dreemurr's are scarred by the idea that they couldn't save their own children, so how could they possibly save someone else's? In short, they're terrified of making things worse. Maybe the closest to evil we get to is the unnamed POV in the second chapter, but at the same time I think that even what they did was probably merciful. What could be the best case scenario for Sans at that point?
> 
> In the end, this was just a trip to the beach that went horribly wrong. A complete accident, with no one any more guilty of these deaths then the two men in the boat.  
> Then again, maybe I'm just being a preachy bitch. In fact, I guarantee that _is_ the case, because I tend to take myself FAR to seriously. XD  
>  I'd love to hear what you guys think, though!
> 
>  _God_ , I wish that I could give this a happy ending.
> 
>  
> 
> **Thanks again for reading. If you have any corrections, questions, or comments for me, I love every little interaction I get on this site. Now, have a great day, and do me a favor and go read something happier! LOL!**


End file.
